In company with other delegates of the Christian
Commission I reached Fredericksburg, Virginia, on the 12th of May, seven days
after the first engagement of the Army of the Potomac with the Confederate forces under
General Lee. The spectacle which presented itself to our view as we passed down the
pleasant streets to the head-quarters of the Commission was pitiable to the last degree.
The town was one vast hospital; every church, every store, every dwelling, every door-yard
was crowded with wounded; even the side-walks were occupied in many places by exhausted
soldiers on their way from the field in search of shelter and assistance. On that
daythe 12th of Maythere were six thousand maimed and mangled
veterans thus accumulated in this charming town, this malignantly traitorous town, lying
by the rivers brink, with green and smiling slopes stretching away behind it, and
rows of thrifty trees spreading their broad boughs along its ample streets. Walking abroad
any hour of the day, groups of soldiers, with arms and faces bandaged, with feet limping
painfully, many leaning on crutches, some supported on the brawny arms of kindly comrades,
met us at every corner. Entering the roomy churches, a wounded hero was found lying in
every pew, with his dirty blanket for a pillow; others crowded the vestibule, aisles, and
pulpit; while among them all nurses moved softly to and fro, some with cups of coffee and
baskets of fruit, some with basins and sponges, some with bandages, lint, and
clothingall with something needed by the suffering. Stepping into a private mansion,
its portico overhung with vines, and flowers creeping up to the windows, soiled, weary,
wounded men were found in every nook and corner, occupying chairs, sofas, beds, or lying
on the floors, or sitting in ghastly rows against the walls, patiently awaiting necessary
relief. Every where weariness was finding rest, and brave, patient souls were finding
anchorage in still, homelike harbors, away from the battles storm.

Hourly, as the days and nights slipped on, trains of
ambulances from the distant field wound along the streets, pausing here and there to leave
additional wounded, or to permit the guards to lift out the dead and dying, and carry them
away on stretchers to the dead-house, or the rooms where the more serious cases were
attended to by the surgeons. Scarcely an hour passed, in the five days immediately
following our arrival, that trains of this kind did not reach the town. Often, the
ambulance trains proving inadequate to the emergency, the wounded were brought in in heavy
army wagons, the men lying flat on their backs and suffering necessarily from the
incessant jolting and the absence of the comforts ordinarily provided in ambulances. In
some instances the poor fellows thus brought in were without any thing to eat or drink for
over two days.

THE HOSPITAL ORGANIZATION

As far as possible the wounded, as they were brought in,
were classified and assigned to the division and corps to which they belonged. In the
Second and Sixth Corps the loss had been so great that several of the largest buildings in
the town were required to accommodate merely the serious cases. One principal surgeon,
with as many assistants as were needed, was assigned to each hospital, the delegates of
the Christian and Sanitary Commissions acting as nurses. These men labored with a zeal and
fidelity which can not be too warmly commended. Many worked night and day, snatching bits
of sleep at odd moments, in carrying stores, dressing wounds, washing and clothing the
sick and wounded, preparing food and drink, writing letters for the soldiers to the dear
ones at home. This last is a prominent feature in the work of the Christian Commission.
Its delegates, in all cases where deaths occur under their observation, furnish
particulars of the event to the friends and relatives of the deceased, always sending a
lock of hair as a memento of the lost one; and communicate also, in behalf of the wounded
whenever they desire it, with the homes they have left to battle for the nations
sake. Thousands of hearts have thus been enriched by news from the field which might
never, but for this Commission, have been informed as to the fate of absent dear ones.

DIFFICULTIES OF THE WORK OF RELIEF

For the first week after our occupation of Fredericksburg
hospital supplies were very scarce, and there was much suffering in consequence. The few
citizens who had failed to join in the exodus of the population refused to furnish any
facilities for the care of the wounded; the stores had been stripped by the Confederate
soldiery, and absolute destitution consequently prevailed, even the commonest utensils,
such as cups and basins, being altogether beyond our reach. It happened, from this, that
many of the wounded were neither cleansed nor removed from the wagons in which they were
transported from the field for two or three days after their arrival, and some who were
carried to Belle Plain were a whole week without surgical assistance. Within nine days,
however, after the first engagement, the medical and sanitary works was thoroughly
systematized; adequate supplies were obtained, and the condition of the men was made
comparatively comfortable. On Saturday the 14th, when there were 6000 wounded
in the hospitals, and probably 2000 others wandering about the streets, there were none
for whom it was impossible to provide, though there was of course, among those who had
suffered amputations, or sustained injuries in vital parts, a great amount of suffering
which it was impossible for any human skill to relieve.

CHARACTER OF THE WOUNDS

A large proportion of those who had gone into hospital had
sustained wounds of the arm and right breast. This was said to be owing to the fact that
in the engagements in "the Wilderness," where the scrub timber was about as high
as a mans head, the right arm, lifted necessarily in loading the musket, had
presented a mark for the sharp-shooters of the enemy, who, firing deliberately under cover
of the brush, had thus disabled an unnatural proportion of our solders in the arm so
peculiarly exposed. The wounds thus received were for the most part slight, and would not
permanently disable those sustaining them. Many, however, wounded from the same cause in
the head, suffered greatly; in some cases balls were extracted, in others broken pieces of
the skull removed, and in a few eyes were shot away, jaws broken, noses fractured. Wounds
of this nature required the closest care and attention, needing to be dressed, when
peculiarly aggravated, once or twice a day. One poor fellow who fell under our
careJ. H. Pervis, of the Thirty-seventh Alabama Regimentwas wounded in four
places, namely: in the neck, breast, shoulder and right armall the wounds having
been made by a single ball. The hurts were of the most aggravated and offensive character,
emitting a horrible odor; but the sufferer was attended to with the same care as our own
men, his hurts being faithfully cleansed and dressed twice a day.

All these wounds, however, were but scratches as compared
with the injuries of many who fell in the desperate engagement of Thursday, May 12. Some
of the men who came in from that terrible field were literal hulks. Arms, legs, hands,
feet, and in some cases even the bowels, were shot away; and for two days after their
arrival in the hospitals a large force of surgeons was constantly employed in amputating
fractured limbs. Walking the streets, you could see streams of stretchers bending under
limp and mangled bodies, dead and living, flowing in and out at the doors; while all about
groups of soldiers stood chatting with calm unconcern, simply saying, as the litters
drifted past them, "There goes Captain This, Colonel That, or Private
So-and-sodead, poor fellow, at last!"

SPIRIT OF THE MEN

Yet amidst all these scenes of horror, these pains and
sufferings, under which common men would have perished, these royalsouled veterans
of the Army of the Potomac did not utter one whimper or complaint. Suffering often for
food and drink; their clothing saturated with blood, their limbs limp and helpless;
sometimes dragging themselves on crutches, by painful marches, from the distant field to
the nearest hospital, they endured all with a robust patience and resignation, showing
they had in them the stuff of which martyrs are made, seeming to rejoice that it was their
privilege to "suffer and be strong" for the nations sake. A cup of coffee,
or ration of "hard tack," seemed to compensate, in their view, for all pains and
losses; and the assurance of shelter and a handbreadth of dry ground on which to spread
their blankets and lie down to rest, was to them the only bliss, beyond the supply of
natures wants, they could desire. One day, passing along a side street, we found a
woman kneeling over a soldier lying prostrate on the sidewalk, his head resting on a tuft
of grass which the thousands of hurrying feet had left untouched. Upon inquiry we learned
that the sufferernames Stephen Kidd, of the Twelfth New Jersey Regimenthad two
wounds in his bowels and his right arm broken; that he had come from the field in an
ambulance, but becoming too much exhausted to ride any further had been lifted out and
left at the roadside where we found him. Stimulants were administered, and animation was
after a while restored, when the wounds were dressed, though it was apparent he could not
survive the day. The brave fellow, however, vehemently insisted that he "would be all
right in a day or two;" and on reply to a question whether he would not like his
family to be advised of his condition, said it was altogether unnecessary; he could very
soon write himself and tell the whole story. Yet, while he was thus talking to us in
painful morsels of speech, death was every moment deepening its shadow on his face, and
the soft sky, bending over him, and all natures loveliness, was fading slowly,
surely, and forever from his failing sight! The dream of his heart, glimmering that hour
though his feeble talk, that he would yet have "another chance" at the foe, and
participate, perhaps, in the glory of the final triumph, was not to have its fulfillment,
failing, alas! as the prophecies of how many other brave souls have failed in these sad
years of the latter time.

Yet the noble men who "welcome death with songs and
decorate it with the braveries of faith" are by no means callous to the gentler
influences of life. The mere mention of Home was at any time sufficient to bring a grave
and wistful look into the bronzed, weather-beaten veterans face. Passing a church
occupied as a hospital, a night or so after our arrival, we hear the music of an organ.
Entering the building, with every pew and aisle crowded with wounded, a ghostly light from
a dozen lanterns making the darkness seem only the more horrible, we saw in the organ-loft
a group of men with their arms in slings, one of whom, who had sustained a mere trifle of
a hurt, was fondling the organ-keys. Presently, as we stood there in the pallid gloom,
down from the gallery, and along the aisles, floated the tender notes of "Home, sweet
Home," sobbing, sighing, as with the unutterable longings of souls famished for
glimpses of the dear spot, around which all of lifes joys and hopes are forever
grouped. The spirit of the song seemed, on the instant, to fill all the place, and every
maimed and suffering hero, who in the battles face had been stern and pitiless as
death, melted at the touch of the familiar melody. Bandaged hands stole to eyes unused to
weeping; heads that no calamity could have bowed bent under the soft pressure of old
home-memories. To how many souls, think you, came glimpses in that moment of homes far
awayhomes on busy city streets, homes on green hill-sides dotted with apple-trees in
bloom, homes in pleasant villages with gardens lying all around them; homes in which a
vacant chair awaits the fathers or sons return, and sweet-faced children,
clambering to the mothers knee, prattle in their innocence of the dear one exposed
to the battles storm, while unto them the May skies float down only blossoms, song,
and fragrance?

The music ceased at last, and for a little time all was
still. Then, suddenly, from a far corner of the gallery, came a voice: "Now give us
Yankee Doodle;" and with that a gust of feeble cheers fluttered up from the
ghostly pews, and, obedient to the call, the organ pealed out, full and strong, the
nations hymn, supplementing it with "Hail Columbia!" and other stirring
airs, to all of which the veterans cried, again and again, Encore. We walked away
with their faint cheers sounding in our ears; and we say to ourselves hourly, as we
remember that soul-lifting scene, "With such men to fight our battles victory must
be ours."

Many other scenes deepened the impression that no more
magnificent courage ever animated any army than that which nerves and sustains the
soldiery of General Grant. Every hour or so regiments of fresh troops, marching to the
front, passed through Fredericksburg. As they moved forward to the sound of inspiring
music, groups of wounded, standing on the corners and sitting on the piazzas and in
windows of the hospitals, saluted them with round after round of cheers. That was the
welcome of men who had been through the fire to men, as noble as themselves, who were
panting and straining for the same glorious baptism. For every cheer from the limping,
smitten spectators, they returnedthese fresh, clean, courageous
comerssalutations of double volume, cheering with all the strength of lusty manhood,
flags dipping and fluttering over all as if with royal benedictions. The wounded, under
the inspiration of such grand moments, forgot all the dangers of the field, all their
personal pains and sacrifices; they thought only of the Cause, remembered only that these
stout fellows marching to the front would fill their places and help achieve the overthrow
at last of the still defiant foe; and that thought brought a welcome to every lip,
and made every heart eager for the fray.

An excellent illustration of the prevailing temper of the
men was given by a Pennsylvania captain, who had been wounded in the thigh and ordered to
Washington. "I wouldnt have minded my hurt," he said, with a sort of
savage despair, "if I had only been able to do something before receiving it. But
that was denied me. I had just got my men into line and their pieces loaded, and was about
to give the order to fire, when a bullet came whizzing straight into my leg, and I fell
with the order forming on my lips. Oh, if I could only have delivered a single volley! But
here I am, disabled, and without the consolation that I have done a single thing for the
cause." Another brave fellow, chatting with the surgeon while his wounds were
dressed, said it "was too bad he had been hit, " he "wanted so much to
remain in the ranks;" and with that broke into sobs because he couldnt at once
return to the front and share in the perils of coming battle-days.

DISPOSITION OF THE REBELS

The feeling of all the Confederates with whom we were able
to converse was one of unqualified discontent with the Confederacy and its rulers, and of
hearty weariness at the prolongation of the war. All admitted that popular freedom at the
South had been destroyed; that the army was only kept together by harsh and arbitrary
measures; and that the people would welcome gladly the restoration of peace and order,
even under Federal rule. Many of these men had been kept in the service by force after the
expiration of the terms for which they enlisted; and they all manifested the utmost
satisfaction at their deliverance from the grip of the Confederate authority. They seemed,
for the most part, surprised at the kind treatment they received at the hands of our
surgeons and nurses, and were even more amazed at the evidences every where presented of
the unfailing resources and prosperity of the North. The appearance of these prisoners,
ten thousand of whom we saw in camp, was any thing but prepossessing. None had complete
uniforms; many were barefooted; many without hats; and their faces were to the last degree
expressionless and stolid.

THE FREDERICKSBURG CEMETERY

Back of Fredericksburg, near the foot of the celebrated
Heights, lies a cemetery, surrounded with a heavy wall, and crowded with trees and
shrubbery, with flowers fringing the ample walks, and gray, weather-beaten tombs and green
hillocks marking the couches where weary pilgrims have lain down to the long sleep. At the
northern extremity of this cemetery are several rows of graves, with plain boards at the
head and foot of each, were some hundreds of North Carolina, Arkansas, Virginia,
Louisiana, Georgia, and Mississippi soldiers, who fell in the battle of Fredericksburg in
December, 1862, are buried. These graves have been neatly kept; many are embellished with
floral tributes from some kindly hands; some have pots of flowers leaning against the
plain head-boards, while upon all green mantles are folded lovingly, as if to shield the
still sleepers from all rudely-pelting storms. On the opposite side of the grounds, as we
wandered to and fro, we found several graves, just made, in which loyal soldiers, fallen
in the campaign, have been buried. On one of these gravesthat of a Maine
soldiersome one had planted a rose-bush, and grouped a handful of round white stones
in the form of a wreath. Beside these were other graves, just opened, waiting occupants
from the hospitals just a little distance away. Thus, however divided in lifewith
whatever eager passion contending under hostile flagsthe loyal and disloyal sleep
side by side at last in the bivouac that only the long-roll of the Judgment shall break:
sleep side by side, with the same boughs whispering over them, the same birds singing
around them, the same summer blossoms drifting fragrance through their calm sleep, the
same softly-stepping years pacing past their graves, leaving shadow and wreck behind.

THE SOLDIERS AND GENERAL GRANT

It is wonderful how entirely the army confides in General
Grant. Every soldiers tongue is full of his praises. No matter how severely wounded,
no matter how intensely suffering, if there is strength enough in him to speak, every man
in all these hospital wards will tell you, if you ask him his opinion, "He is one of
us, this Unconditional Surrender General; and he will bring us through, God willing, just
as surely as the sun shines." Then they will tell you stories of the watchfulness and
care, the fearlessness and obstinate intrepidity of this man whose plume they delight to
follow; how he is every where, by night and day, looking after the comfort of his men, and
quietly prosecuting the strategic work of the campaign; how he rides, unexpectedly, to the
remote outposts, speaking a pleasant word to the pickets if faithfully on duty, and
administering reprimands if not vigilant and watchful; how he shuns fuss and show, going
about often with only an orderly, instead of a dozen or so of foppish, bedizened aids; how
his staff, plain, earnest men like himself, get down at times from their horses, that sick
and wounded fellow, straggling hospital-ward, may rest their weariness by riding to their
destination; how, in a word, he is an earnest, thoughtful, resolute, kind man,
sympathizing with the humblest soldier in his ranks, penetrated with a solemn appreciation
of the work given him to do, and determined, by Heavens help, to do it, right on the
line he has occupied. And when they tell you this, these maimed heroes lying here in these
Fredericksburg hospitals, they add always, with a magnificent élanan energy
which has a grand touch of pride in it"And well help him do this work;
well stand by him to the end, come what may; well perish, every man of us,
rather than have him fail and the Cause dishonored; well be proud of every scar won
in fighting where he leads." What is itcan any one tell us?that
makes two hundred thousand men put trust and confidence so complete as this in this
simple-hearted farmer-General, who, three years ago, was husking corn or following the
plow on far Western prairies?